


there is only now

by girljustdied



Category: Misfits (TV 2009)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-01
Updated: 2010-12-01
Packaged: 2019-10-03 21:05:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17291423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girljustdied/pseuds/girljustdied
Summary: something is going on with him.  and with Alisha.  he can’t sort it out.





	there is only now

**Author's Note:**

> post 2x03.

Alisha looks at him now. A lot. Once he’d tried to make himself invisible on instinct, perhaps as a sort of joke, but found he couldn’t make it work.

“The hell is wrong with your face?” she’d stepped forward, one hand jerking up towards him from her side before stilling inches from his cheek. “Are you all right?”

This was a problem, he thought. A big one. He wishes he could ask one of them to help him experiment a bit so that things like this wouldn’t be a surprise. What if this had been a life or death situation? Nathan would make fun of the idea of “experimenting,” but all the sexual harassment might be worth it if it meant not looking like a fool. Or worse.

Especially in front of her.

When it starts feeling like too much he asks Alisha if there’s something in his teeth—he’d had a salad for lunch, so many small pieces—and she flinches. No, not really a flinch. But her eyes widen and her mouth twitches before she purses it in thought.

“Doesn’t feel very good, does it?” she finally retorts, her eyes gentle even though her words are not. Is this teasing? Hard to say. “Being stared at all the time?”

“I don’t stare. All the time.”

Plus, he doesn’t think he’d mind very much at all. Not after the uncomfortable feeling in his skin wore off.

“For fuck’s sake,” she looks away. He watches how her jaw moves as she chews some gum. She likes fruity flavors as well, smells like strawberry jam. “Yeah, sure you don’t.”

Sarcasm. It’s a weak way to parry back, and she looks like she actually knows it. He feels his lips tug up at the edges, and can barely even comprehend it when her mouth follows suit. Looks her in the eye for a moment, until he can’t anymore. Chin to chest, he feels his skin itching, shoulder muscles getting tight.

When he tries to give it another go, she’s still staring. He wills himself to hold her gaze until she’s the one that looks away. It doesn’t take very much time.

Feels strong. Solid.

Curtis tries to get her to go out for a drink with them, but she’s all arms crossed over her chest and vague excuses. Earnest face, though. Seems at least somewhat sincere when she says that she has some things to do.

Simon watches her walk away until he can’t see her anymore.

He wonders what happens next.

Feels a plastic bottle hit his temple in a burst of sharp pain, watches Nathan’s “Coming, Barry? Or are you just going to rewind Alisha’s arse walking away in your pervy little head over and over all evening—” get cut off by Kelly giving Nathan a hard punch in the chest.

“Prick!”

Curtis just shakes his head, gives a low, condescending chuckle. Doesn’t see Simon as a threat.

All in all, he doesn’t really feel like going out anymore.

But then Nathan’s offering—more like threatening, really—to kiss it all better, and Kelly’s lighting up the leftover half of a cigarette she’d started earlier in the day, and Curtis is texting someone on his phone with an absent-minded smile. So he figures he’ll go along.

“Let’s get bladdered, then,” Nathan struts off, puffing on a cigarette of his own.

Simon doesn’t do it very much any longer, but sometimes when he’s in a crowded pub he’ll use his power. When he doesn’t he can end up getting in fights with drunk blokes over the honor of their girls and/or their own raging heterosexuality or what have you. For some reason he’s never fully understood, he inspired this behavior in others a lot. Because while he does stare—Alisha wasn’t wrong about that—he’d always cowered in response to all the upset. Went belly-up, so to speak. Surely being particularly pathetic would make the whole thing seem pointless. Apparently not. He’d ask the people that beat him up what it was, exactly—but figures that most likely wouldn’t turn out very well.

He wonders now, a bit squiffy, if maybe even his weakness has a weird kind of strength. Too much intensity. Puts people off. He sort of enjoys the thought of that. Makes losing feel like something else.

Maybe he’ll ask Alisha about it. She’d be honest. Probably. It’d give them something to speak about.

Either way, he thinks maybe next time he’ll try fighting back.

Alisha shows up much later in the night with squared shoulders and scary, focused eyes. Proceeds to get completely plastered. He can’t decide if he’s grateful or not that he’d chosen to stay visible when she tugs him out on the dance floor by his sleeve.

“Feeling charitable!” she screams out louder than she has to over the music.

He thinks he hears Nathan and Curtis laughing in response. Stands there and lets Alisha move against him. Focuses on her bare left shoulder, on the small beads of sweat that’ve formed there. When she tries to maneuver his hands onto her hips, he panics—

“I think I’m going to leave now.” And at the look of confusion, then irritation on her face, “Thank you?”

“Fuck off.” She seems a bit too angry given the situation, but that may be the alcohol speaking. “Come back in a few years, yeah? Better yet, _don’t_. You hear me, you prick? Remember _that_.”

“Good night,” he murmurs. Ashamed, confused, eyes shifting from hers.

Gets out of there as fast as he can, doesn’t even say anything to the others because he’s got that familiar feeling of spinning shaking screaming in his head—collapses in the alley outside of the pub, convulsing.

Knows with dead certainty that if anyone were to come out, they wouldn’t see him at all.

He’s right. An older man heads towards the entrance, almost crushes Simon’s fingertips with his right boot. The stranger opens the door and runs smack into Alisha trying to exit through it. She’s on edge from the contact immediately, Simon can see, especially when the man laughs flirtatiously. Then he touches the bare skin of her arm.

Things move very quickly. The man calls her a whore and shoves her up against the wall next to the door—which slams shut with a bang that makes Simon jump. Alisha struggles, maybe. He’s not sure, because she doesn’t scream or cry out.

He thinks about calling out to Kelly for help. Or Curtis. Or even Nathan—at least he wouldn’t have to worry about getting killed in a finite sort of way.

Alisha’s mouth moves in the shape of his name, her breath too strangled to get it out.

So he stands, hands groping in the dark for something heavy. Finds a small plank of wood, steels his will, and hits the man as hard as he can in the side. Learned his lesson about going for the head—it wasn’t this man’s fault that this was happening, just like it wasn’t Alisha’s. Didn’t need to kill him.

Not yet.

The hit doesn’t dislodge him enough to let go of Alisha, so Simon has to do it again, goes for the knees this time, which does the trick.

“The fuck is happening?” the man moans from the floor of the alley. “What did you do to me, you slag?”

Alisha can’t think her way out of this—he can see her mind whirring, trying to sort something out. Then she just takes off running.

Simon wants to hit that unfortunate man just one more time. Supposes that he was wrong about someone being too pathetic and innocent to beat the piss out of. Drops the board instead and follows Alisha. Doesn’t want to lose her in the night.

She keels over after about ten blocks, ducks into another alley. He finds her with hands on her knees and breath puffing out like smoke in the cold night air. Isn’t sure if he wants to reveal himself. Wants to see what’ll happen. Watches her slump down to the ground, her back to the wall and arms wrapping around her knees.

“You can come out,” she says after a long moment. When she looks up he can see tear tracks glinting on her face. “Simon?” And when he doesn’t do anything, she takes in a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Simon. About earlier—the things I said. I know,” she’s struggling not to cry anymore, he thinks. “I know that you’re right. You’re spot-on about everything, all right? It’s just that nothing makes any fucking sense anymore.”

He doesn’t understand, can’t help but speak up, “Right about what?”

She jumps, head jerking in his direction and eyes getting impossibly big. “ _Simon_?”

Not quite the reaction he expected.

“Hi,” he greets simply. Sheepishly. Doesn’t know what else to say.

She deflates, shaking hands coming up to cover her face.

“Are you okay?” he asks when she starts making small, whimpering sounds. She shakes her head. “Are you going to be okay, then?”

“You have no idea what it’s like,” she finally sobs. “It’s a fucking curse. I thought it would be easier once I met—” she stops short, hands moving to show her eyes shooting up to meet his briefly. “But it’s even worse now, I think.”

“Who did you meet?” He wracks his brain for something that makes sense. Grasps the simplest answer—“Someone you can touch?”

She stares up at him with an absolutely unreadable expression for a very long time, and he holds it. Feels it’s very important that he does.

“No,” she murmurs. “I wish.” Seems like she’s lying, but her eyes don’t shift in that telltale sort of way. “My head’s a mess. I meant Curtis. Sorry.”

Oh. Curtis.

“Maybe we could help one another,” and then at her incredulous look. “All of us.”

“Seriously?” she laughs mirthlessly. “How?”

“I’ve been thinking about it. A lot. Our powers. It seems like we should—” he searches for a word other than the dreaded _experiment_ , “test them. Figure out everything we’re capable of. Like in _X-Men_.”

“I don’t understand,” she looks down at her hands.

“Maybe there’s a way to control your power. Or make it inspire other emotions as well. Maybe I could turn other people invisible, or Kelly could project her thoughts into our minds—”

“Got it,” she interrupts. “But it sounds too dangerous. How would we do it?”

It’s true. Wouldn’t want to do something like accidentally find a way to actually kill Nathan. Or end up forcing himself on Alisha. He thinks.

“I don’t know.” Yet.

She sighs, looks restless. Stands shakily and brushes herself off. There are small, gravel-shaped indentations on the backs of her thighs. He wants to touch them. Very badly.

“All right,” she huffs. Looks at him knowingly. “I’m off.”

“I can—I can walk you to your flat.”

“No.”

He’s angry. Really angry, very suddenly. Can count on one hand the amount of times he’s left somewhere first instead of staying to watch, blood pounding in his ears, but this is going to be one of them. Gives her a wide berth as he stalks past her to head home.

“Simon!” Alisha calls out.

He stops, but doesn’t turn to look at her.

“Thanks,” her voice serious. Like before, when she’d brought him that drink.

He breathes in, and out. In. Starts on his way again, words of reply stuck in his chest.

Spends an hour staring up at his ceiling, sheets secured under chin. When he was in the hospital, they’d tried to teach him meditation. To clear his head. Told him to focus on his breathing only, snuff out all the rest. This always had the opposite effect—panic attacks. Whenever he tried to focus on his inhales and exhales, nothing felt autonomic anymore. Like his body didn’t know for sure now that he was paying such close attention.

He didn’t like it. Not one bit. Besides, Simon enjoys thinking about things. Even if it hurts. And even if he shouldn’t. Maybe most especially then.

His cell phone chimes—a text. Surprisingly enough, it’s not completely out of the ordinary to get one at four in the morning anymore. Nathan trying to bother him into bringing some breakfast, mostly. Sometimes Kelly when she can’t sleep, or Curtis by accident. Simon can’t decide if this is a good or bad turn of fortune.

He certainly sleeps less.

Ignores his phone until it chimes again. He didn’t know Alisha actually had his phone number—he didn’t give it to her—but apparently she does, because the two texts are from her:

“R u home?”

“Simon?”

He hates that. The letters for words.

“Yes.” He types back, slowly and carefully.

“Thn com let me in.”

Alisha knows where he lives. She’s here. The idea is, well, frightening. He pulls on a pair of trousers in a half-daze. Smoothes down his hair. Tugs on an undershirt, fixes his hair again. Pads down the stairs with slippered feet.

He doesn’t know what to say right away when he opens the door, and she speaks up before he can get anything out.

“Are you going to let me in or not?”

He can barely make himself nod. Leads her up to his room, shuts the door behind them.

“So, you’re not speaking to me, yeah?”

“Sorry,” he swallows, rubs at his eyes. “Why are you here?”

“I couldn’t sleep. I was thinking about what you said.”

“About experimenting—” Great. Fantastic— “with our powers.”

She smirks slightly. He should have made more mature friends.

“What did you want to learn about yours?” She asks. The question, her interest—it’s unsettling.

“I don’t know. A lot. I tried to go invisible once when you were looking at me, and I couldn’t.”

She frowns, trains her eyes on him. “All right. Try it again.” The way she ignores how bizarre this whole scene is—it’s comforting, in a way. Like they’re just outside the community center, picking up litter. Instead of in his room, his bed a meter away.

“We should videotape this,” he grasps his phone to occupy his hands.

“What?” surprise and a bit of disgust in her response. “What the fuck for?”

“Research.”

He props his phone up on the windowsill when she doesn’t protest again. Closes his eyes, clenches his fists. Nothing.

“You’re still here,” she affirms.

“This is bad,” he murmurs.

“Why?”

“Because who knows what we’ll have to face. In the future. I can’t have blocks like this—it has to be mental.”

“Try it again,” her eyebrows furrowed in concentration. He wants to touch the crease that forms in her forehead. It’s not helping.

He’s too frustrated. “What about you?”

“What?”

He doesn’t know how to put it right. “Let’s try yours.”

“Pervert,” she spits out in reply, hands moving to rest on her hips.

“I’m not—”

“I’m just fuckin’ with you, Simon.”

He’s not used to that. Not with her. “All right.”

“Do you have a necktie?”

“A necktie.”

“Yeah,” she smiles slightly. “I don’t want to have to hear about you wanting to go down on me while I’m on the rag or something.”

That’s. Interesting.

He digs through his desk, chooses the one he likes the least—powder blue stripes. His mother had said that it would bring out his eyes. Has second thoughts, grabs a black one instead.

“What—what are we going to do?” he stutters when she takes the scrap of fabric from his hands.

“I don’t know,” she purses her lips in a slight frown.

“I think we should try—you should try to think of different things when you,” he swallows. “When you touch me. See if it effects my reaction.”

“All right,” she murmurs. Moves behind him and carefully circles the tie around his head. His mouth. He can feel her knuckles brushing against the back of his head as she ties a knot. “Okay?”

He doesn’t know what to do. Nods. She puts her hands on his shoulders to turn him towards her, so he does.

She closes her eyes, reaches out.

“Wait!” he tries to say, but it comes out just a muffled exclamation.

“What?”

He pulls the necktie out of his mouth as much as he can. His words are less muffled, but she tied it pretty tight. “What are you thinking about?”

“I’m trying to see if I can make you sad.”

It’s a good choice. Easier than happy. For him. Maybe even for her.

He nods, lets go of the fabric. Her hand’s shaking, so he tries to meet her eyes and communicate that everything will be all right. But it seems like it frightens her more, because she looks away almost immediately.

He’d expected her to touch his neck like she had before, but instead her fingertips run lightly along his jaw before her palm cups his cheek, thumb underneath the swell of his bottom lip—

Fuckfuckfuckhewantshewanthewants—

She shoves off, stumbles until her back hits the wall with a loud thump. He’s confused—is on his knees but can’t remember kneeling. Lost time, like Curtis had once told him. Her dress is bunched higher up her thighs. She doesn’t look afraid. Just shaken. God, if only he could remember. Her skin. Soft.

“So,” she’s winded as well. “That didn’t work.”

He can’t breathe with this thing in his mouth. Unties it and rasps in air. “What did I do?”

“Doesn’t matter. This is stupid.”

“No. It’s not. These sort of things are supposed to take practice—”

“ _Practice_ ,” she mocks. It sets him on edge. “Fucking hell. You call that practice?”

“I’m trying to help you,” he mutters, hands in fists at his sides. Is still so hard in his trousers that it’s a bit painful.

She loses grip on her anger, shoulders slumping a little. There’s affection in her gaze. “I know. Sorry.”

“Did I do something bad?”

She shakes her head. “I should go.”

“Why?” he regrets the word as soon as it’s out of his mouth.

“Because I’m scared, all right?”

“Of me.”

“Yeah,” she takes in a deep breath. “Of you. Just not how you think. Not like usual. Just—trust me, all right?”

He’s not sure if he should be offended.

“Do you trust me?” he asks slowly.

She nods, and turns to leave. He lets her go without further protest, fingertips twitching out at the line of her back, desperate to touch her.

He has to debate with himself for a while whether or not to watch the video saved on his phone. Feels like a violation—of who, even?—but in the end he can’t stop himself.

Alisha. Desire in the lines of her body, her face. Clutching at him instead of pushing him away. His head ducking between her legs, hands traveling up her dress.

“Simon,” her voice choked, hands in his hair. “Oh, god, I—fuck, Simon—”

She tilts her head back, breath labored. He can sense it before it happens—can see it in the movement of her chest. Panic.

The rest is as he remembers, but he watches anyway, heart hammering in his chest. Rests his head on the desk afterward, confused and aroused and angry and just—too much. Too much.

What is going on with her?

Feels like he’s made no headway at all. That is, until he sees her at community service later that morning.

She’s staring again, from across a long stretch of pavement where she’s holding a trash bag and listening to Curtis and Nathan debate over something.

Simon stares back. Takes in a deep breath—

“Simon? Quit dickin' around.” Kelly. He’d been picking up litter with her. “Where’d you go, ya wanker? Ya know I hate it when you pull that invisible shit on me.”

Alisha smiles, ducks her head.

He’d done it.


End file.
